Poul Anderson's Planet Stories

by Poul Anderson

  Will the Centaurians stop their looting in time to get clear of that? Ray thought in terror. Somehow I doubt it.

  "I beg your pardon, glorious sir," interjected Roshevsky-Feldkamp, "but we really must make haste, before the invaders discover the emergency hangar we are bound for."

  "No, no, that would never do," agreed the Leader.

  "You must get aloft, glorious sir, to take charge of the counterattack."

  "Yes, yes. I will strike a new medal. The Defense of the Racial Homeland Medal."

  "You remember, of course, glorious sir, that we must not simply destroy the pirate spacecraft," Roshevsky-Feldkamp said. "We must capture them for examination. Afterward, the universe is ours."

  "Hoo-hah!" rang between the walls. From a side passage staggered a band of Centaurians, weighted down with armloads of assorted loot. The guardsmen sprang into formation and brought their rifles up.

  Something like an atomic bomb hit them from the rear. Ray learned afterward that Dyann Korlas and Queen Hiltagar had, between them, evolved a tactical doctrine that employed scouts to keep track of important hostile units and decoys to distract these.

  What he witnessed at the time seemed utter confusion. A kind of maelstrom flung him against a wall and kept him busy dodging edged metal. He did glimpse Dyann herself as she waded into the thick of the fight, hewing, striking, kicking, a veritable incarnation of that Will to Conquer which the Symmetrists preached. Her companions wrought equal havoc. Ray took a minor part in the action. A guardsman reeled near him, tommy gun gripped, seeking a clear shot that wouldn't kill comrades. The Earthling plucked his sidearm from its holster and shot him—in the left buttock, because of recoil, but that sufficed.

  Dyann saw. "Oh, how cute!" she caroled while she broke yet another head.

  Combat soon ended. Most of the Jovians had simply been knocked galley west, and yielded with dazed meekness. Ray spied Wilder and Roshevsky-Feldkamp being prodded off by a squat, one-eyed, grizzled amazon with a silly smirk on her lips. They were doubtless destined for her harem—their decorations may have struck her fancy—and he couldn't think of two people he'd rather have it happen to.

  Only . . . the whole enemy fleet could be arriving any minute—

  What Ray did not know until later was that Urushkidan had prudently taken the original spaceboat outside and was using her beams to disintegrate those vessels and their missiles as they descended. Meanwhile he hummed an old Martian work song. There are times when even a philosopher must take measures.

  VIII

  Official banquets on Earth are notoriously dull. This one was no exception. That the war was over, that the Confederated Satellites would become the Jovian Republic and a respectable member of the World Union, that the stars were attainable: all seemed to call forth more long and dismal platitudes than-ever.

  Ray Tallantyre admitted to himself that the food and drink had been fine. However, there had been such a lot of both. He would have fallen asleep under the speeches had his shoes not pinched him. Thus he heard with surprise the president of his university describe what a remarkable student he had been. As a matter of fact, he'd damn near gotten expelled.

  On his right, Urushkidan, crammed into a tuxedo tailored for his species, puffed a pipe and made calculations on the tablecloth. Left of the man, Dyann Korlas, her bronze braids wound about a plundered tiara, was stunning in a low-cut formal gown. The dagger at her waist was to set a new fashion. True, some confusion had arisen when she placed Ormun the Terrible at her plate and insisted that grace be said to the idol. Nevertheless—

  "—unique scientific genius, whom his alma mater is pleased to honor with a doctorate of law—"

  Dyann leaned close to whisper in Ray's ear: "Ven vill this end?"

  "God knows," he answered as softly, "but I don't believe He's on the program."

  "Ve have really had no time together since the campaign, have ve? Too many people, everyvun vantin us to do sometin or other. Vat are your plans for ven you get a chance to be yourself?"

  "Well, first I want to try and patent the cosmic drive before Urushkidan does. Afterward ... I dunno."

  "It vas fun vile it lasted, our romp, vasn't it?" Her smile held wistfulness. "Me, I must soon go back to Varann. I vant to do somethin vorth-vile vith my life, like find a backvard area and carve me out a throne. You, though—Ray, you are too fine and beautiful for such rough vork. You belon here, in the bright lights and glamour, not amon a bunch of unruly vomen vere you can get hurt."

  "Right," he said.

  "I vill alvays remember you." Her hand dropped warm across his wrist. "Maybe someday ven ve are old, ve can meet again and bore the young people vith brags about our great days."

  She glanced around. "But for now, darlin, if only ve could get avay from here by ourselves. I know a good bar not far off. It has rooms upstairs, too."

  "Hm-m-m," he murmured. The prospect attracted. When she wasn't being a warrior, she was very female. "This calls for tactics. If we could sort of slump down in our chairs bit by bit, acting tired—which ought not to surprise anybody that notices—till we've gradually sunk out of sight, then we could crawl under the table and slip out that service door yonder "

  As he did, Ray heard Urushkidan, called upon for a speech, begin a detailed exposition of his latest theory.

  THE STAR PLUNDERER

  The following is a part, modernized but otherwise authentic, of that curious book found by excavators of the ruins of Sol City, Terra—the Memoirs of Rear Admiral John Henry Reeves, Imperial Solar Navy. Whether or not the script, obviously never published or intended for publication, is a genuine record left by a man with a taste for dramatized reporting, or whether it is pure fiction, remains an open question; but it was undoubtedly written in the early period of the First Empire and as such gives a remarkable picture of the times and especially of the Founder. Actual events may or may not have been exactly as Reeves described, but we cannot doubt that in any case they were closely similar. Read this fifth chapter of the Memoirs as historical fiction if you will, but remember that the author must himself have lived through that great and tragic and triumphant age and that he must have been trying throughout the book to give a true picture of the man who even in his own time had become a legend.

  —Donvar Ayeghen, President of the Galactic Archeological Society

  They were closing in now. The leader was a gray bulk filling my sight scope, and every time I glanced over the wall a spanging sleet of bullets brought my head jerking down again. I had some shelter from behind which to shoot in a fragment of wall looming higher than the rest, like a single tooth left in a dead man’s jaw, but I had to squeeze the trigger and then duck fast. Once in awhile one of their slugs would burst on my helmet and the gas would be sickly-sweet in my nostrils. I felt ill and dizzy with it.

  Kathryn was reloading her own rifle, I heard her swearing as the cartridge clip jammed in the rusty old weapon. I’d have given her my own, except that it wasn’t much better. It’s no fun fighting with arms that are likely to blow up in your face but it was all we had—all that poor devastated Terra had after the Baldics had sacked her twice in fifteen years.

  I fired a burst and saw the big gray barbarian spin on his heels, stagger and scream with all four hands clutching his belly, and sink slowly to his knees. The creatures behind him howled, but he only let out a deep-throated curse. He’d be a long time dying. I’d blown a hole clear through him, but those Gorzuni were tough.

  The slugs wailed around us as I got myself down under the wall, hugging the long grass which had grown up around the shattered fragments of the house. There was a fresh wind blowing, rustling the grass and the big war-scarred trees, sailing clouds across a sunny summer sky, so the gas concentration was never enough to put us out. But Jonsson and Hokusai were sprawled like corpses there against the broken wall. They’d taken direct hits and they’d sleep for hours.

  Kathryn knelt beside me, the ragged, dirty coverall like a queen’s robe on her tall young form
, a few dark curls falling from under her helmet for the wind to play with. ‘If we get them mad enough,” she said, “they’ll call for the artillery or send a boat overhead to blow us to the Black Planet.”

  “Maybe,” I grunted. “Though they’re usually pretty eager for slaves.”

  “John—” She crouched there a moment, the tiny frown I knew so well darkening her blue eyes. I watched the way leaf-shadows played across her thin brown face. There was a grease smudge on the snub nose, hiding the little freckles. But she still looked good, really good, she and green Terra and life and freedom and all that I’d never have again.

  “John,” she said at last, “maybe we should save them the trouble. Maybe we should make our own exit.”

  “It’s a thought,” I muttered, risking a glance above the wall.

  The Gorzuni were more cautious now, creeping through the trampled gardens toward the shattered outbuilding we defended. Behind them, the main estate, last knot of our unit’s resistance, lay smashed and burning. Gorzuni were swarming around us, dragging out such humans as survived and looting whatever treasure was left. I was tempted to shoot at those big furry bodies but I had to save ammunition for the detail closing in on us.

  “I don’t fancy life as the slave of a barbarian outworlder,” I said. “Though humans with technical training are much in demand and usually fairly well treated. But for a woman—” The words trailed off. I couldn’t say them.

  “I might trade on my own mechanical knowledge,” she said. “And then again, I might not. Is it worth the risk, John, my dearest?”

  We were both conditioned against suicide, of course. Everyone in the broken Commonwealth navy was, except bearers of secret information. The idea was to sell our lives or liberty as exorbitantly as possible, fighting to the last moment. It was a stupid policy, typical of the blundering leadership that had helped lose us our wars. A human slave with knowledge of science and machinery was worth more to the barbarians than the few extra soldiers he could kill out of their hordes by staying alive till captured.

  But the implanted inhibition could be broken by a person of strong will. I looked at Kathryn for a moment, there in the tumbled ruins of the house, and her eyes sought mine and rested, deep-blue and grave with a tremble of tears behind the long silky lashes.

  “Well—” I said helplessly, and then I kissed her.

  That was our big mistake. The Gorzuni had moved closer than I realized and in Terra’s gravity—about half of their home planet’s—they could move like a sun-bound comet.

  One of them came soaring over the wall behind me, landing on his clawed splay feet with a crash that shivered in the ground.

  A wild “Whoo-oo-oo-oo!“ was hardly out of his mouth before I’d blown the horned head off his shoulders. But there was a gray mass swarming behind him, and Kathryn yelled and fired into the thick of another attack from our rear.

  Something stung me, a bright sharp pain and then a bomb exploding in my head and a whirling sick spiral down into blackness. The next thing I saw was Kathryn, caught in the hairy arms of a soldier. He was half again as tall as she, he’d twisted the barrel off her weapon as he wrenched it from her hands, but she was giving him a good fight. A hell of good fight. Then I didn’t see anything else for some time.

  They herded us aboard a tender after dark. It was like a scene from some ancient hell—night overhead and around, lit by many score of burning houses like uneasy torches out there in the dark, and the long, weary line of humans stumbling toward the tender with kicks and blows from the guards to hurry them along.

  One house was aflame not far off, soaring blue and yellow fire glancing off the metal of the ship, picking a haggard face from below, glimmering in human tears and in unhuman eyes. The shadows wove in and out, hiding us from each other save when a gust of wind blew up the fire. Then we felt a puff of heat and looked away from each other’s misery.

  Kathryn was not to be seen in that weaving line. I groped along with my wrists tied behind me, now and then jarred by a gunbutt as one of the looming figures grew impatient. I could hear the sobbing of women and the groaning of men in the dark, before me, behind me, around me as they forced us into the boat.

  “Jimmy. Where are you, Jimmy?”

  “They killed him. He’s lying there dead in the ruins.”

  “O God, what have we done?”

  “My baby. Has anyone seen my baby? I had a baby and they took him away from me.”

  “Help, help, help, help, help—”

  A mumbled and bitter curse, a scream, a whine, a rattling gasp of breath, and always the slow shuffle of feet and the sobbing of the women and the children.

  We were the conquered. They had scattered our armies. They had ravaged our cities. They had hunted us through the streets and the hills and the great deeps of space, and we could only snarl and snap at them and hope that the remnants of our navy might pull a miracle. But miracles are hard to come by.

  So far the Baldic League had actually occupied only the outer planets. The inner worlds were nominally under Commonwealth rule but the government was hiding or nonexistent. Only fragments of the navy fought on without authority or plan or hope, and Terra was the happy hunting ground of looters and slave raiders. Before long, I supposed bitterly, the outworlders would come in force, break the last resistance, and incorporate all the Solar System into their savage empire. Then the only free humans would be the extrasolar colonists, and a lot of them were barbaric themselves and had joined the Baldic League against the mother world.

  The captives were herded into cells aboard the tender, crammed together till there was barely room to stand.

  Kathryn wasn’t in my cell either. I lapsed into dull apathy.

  When everyone was aboard, the deckplates quivered under our feet and acceleration jammed us cruelly against each other. Several humans died in that press. I had all I could do to keep the surging mass from crushing in my chest but of course the Gorzuni didn’t care. There were plenty more where we came from.

  The boat was an antiquated and rust-eaten wreck, with half its archaic gadgetry broken and useless. They weren’t technicians, those Baldics. They were barbarians who had learned too soon how to build and handle spaceships and firearms, and a score of their planets united by a military genius had gone forth to overrun the civilized Commonwealth.

  But their knowledge was usually by rote; I have known many a Baldic “engineer” who made sacrifices to his converter, many a general who depended on astrologers or haruspices for major decisions. So trained humans were in considerable demand as slaves. Having a degree in nuclear engineering myself, I could look for a halfway decent berth, though of course there was always the possibility of my being sold to someone who would flay me or blind me or let me break my heart in his mines.

  Untrained humans hadn’t much chance. They were just flesh-and-blood machines doing work that the barbarians didn’t have automatics for, rarely surviving ten years of slavery. Women were the luxury trade, sold at high prices to the human renegades and rebels. I groaned at that thought and tried desperately to assure myself that Kathryn’s technical knowledge would keep her in the possession of a nonhuman.

  We were taken up to a ship orbiting just above the atmosphere. Airlocks were joined, so I didn’t get a look at her from outside, but as soon as we entered I saw that she was a big interstellar transport of the Thurnogan class, used primarily for carrying troops to Sol and slaves back, but armed for bear. A formidable fighting ship when properly handled.

  Guards were leaning on their rifles, all of Gorzuni race, their harness worn any way they pleased and no formality between officers and men. The barbarian armies’ sloppy discipline had blinded our spit-and-polish command to their reckless courage and their savage gunnery. Now the fine-feathered Commonwealth navy was a ragged handful of hunted, desperate men and the despised outworlders were harrying them through the Galaxy.

  This ship was worse than usual, though. I saw rust and mold on the unpainted plates. The fluor
os were dim and in places burned out. There was a faint pulse in the gravity generators. They had long ago been stripped and refurnished with skins, stolen hold goods, cooking pots, and weapons. The Gorzuni were all as dirty and unkempt as their ship. They lounged about gnawing chunks of meat, drinking, dicing, and looking up now and then to grin at us.

  A barbarian who spoke some Anglic bellowed at us to strip. Those who hesitated were cuffed so the teeth rattled in their heads. We threw the clothes in a heap and moved forward slowly past a table where a drunken Gorzuni and a very sober human sat. Medical inspection.

  The barbarian “doctor” gave each of us the most cursory glance. Most were passed on. Now and then he would look blearily at someone and say, “Sickly. Never make trip alive. Kill.”

  The man or woman or child would scream as he picked up a sword and chopped off the head with one expert sweep.

  The human sat halfway on the table swinging one leg and whistling softly. Now and again the Gorzuni medic would look at him in doubt over some slave. The human would look closer. Usually he shoved them on. One or two he tapped for killing.

  I got a close look at him as I walked by. He was below medium height, stockily built, dark and heavy-faced and beak-nosed, but his eyes were large and blue-gray, the coldest eyes I have ever seen on a human. He wore a loose colorful shirt and trousers of rich material probably stolen from some Terran villa.

  “You filthy bastard,” I muttered.

  He shrugged, indicating the iron collar welded about his neck. “I only work here, Lieutenant,” he said mildly. He must have noticed my uniform before I shed it.

  Beyond the desk, a Gorzuni played a hose on us, washing off blood and grime. And then we were herded down the lone corridors and by way of wooden ladders (the drop-shafts and elevators weren’t working, it seemed) to the cells. Here they separated men and women. We went into adjoining compartments, huge echoing caverns of metal with bunks tiered along the wall, food troughs and sanitary facilities the only furnishings.